


To Belong

by cutglasscaress



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha Sherlock, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, BAMF John, Forced Bonding, Knotting, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Omega John, Omega Verse, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-05
Updated: 2013-12-05
Packaged: 2018-01-03 13:36:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1071075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cutglasscaress/pseuds/cutglasscaress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: </p>
<p>“Please, I.. I’ll make a deal with you. I will stay with you, willingly, but... no bonding. I can’t... please...” </p>
<p>Sherlock stares deep into John’s eyes, looking almost sad that he has to disappoint him, his voice a soft low whisper. </p>
<p>“No, John, I can’t take that risk.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Belong

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: Thanks to the lovely dioscureantwins for her helpful advice – if you haven’t read her works, I urge you to do so. All subsequent muck ups are purely my own.
> 
> Disclaimer: I dream of owning John and Sherlock. Sadly, horrid reality prevails.

Another waste of his time. A thoroughly pedestrian case that he solved within twenty minutes of arriving on the scene. Really, the world was full of idiots, and sadly he had to deal with them. He discovered the pills almost immediately, hidden under the floorboard of the victim’s bedroom. Not the cleverest hiding place, but the woman hadn’t had many choices. So, state of the marriage right there. Of course once the husband had found them, her fate had been sealed. Not that he admitted to any of it, of course. He played the distraught spouse for all it was worth. It didn’t fool him for a minute. As unusual as it was for a bonded to murder their partner, it was hardly unheard of. Sherlock had read several fascinating cases on the subject.

Once he reeled off his deductions the husband had called for his lawyer, but even with all his money, his chances of acquittal were slim. Still, it was worth slamming another nail in that particular coffin. He had been in the same room with the man for ten minutes, and the urge to see him behind bars for the rest of his life had felt like an itch in his mind. He decided to pursue any further leads to ensure his conviction.

And so his next port of call was to the doctor whose name and details had also been squirreled away under the floorboard. He decided not to phone first. Turning up unexpectedly and questioning people tended to throw them for a loop, and more insights could be gained than if they were prepared. It was possible that the doctor would refuse to talk to him, notwithstanding the death of his patient, although he should be aware that he would have to talk to the police eventually. Not that Sherlock had shared his little find with the met, and knowing their level of competence, the likelihood of them finding the doctor was minimal.

 

Sherlock arrived at the modest surgery, flashed Lestrade’s ID, and asked to see Dr John Watson. He was quickly ushered into his office by a rather flustered receptionist.

The doctor looked up in surprise and concern. He clearly could not help the first thought that occurred to him.

“Oh, God, is it Harry?”

He was halfway out of his seat before Sherlock assured him that Harry was not involved. The relief emanating from the smaller man was palpable. He sat down again, although he looked far from relaxed.

“Brother?” Sherlock guessed.

“Sister.” John smiled a little sadly.

Once the receptionist had left, Sherlock explained the reason for his visit. Dr Watson was appalled. His jaw had tightened during Sherlock’s speech, and he was clearly angry and upset at the fate of his patient.

“It would be helpful if you could tell me anything about the victim’s circumstances. I’m aware the husband did not know she was on suppressants.”

“Mrs Ashworth started coming to me a few months ago, soon after her marriage. She told me she didn’t want a child, at least not immediately, and the chances of successful impregnation outside of heats is very low. So I prescribed her the suppressants. I told her it could only be a short term solution.”

“As the husband would be suspicious if she never went into heat.”

“Yes. Luckily there isn’t a pattern for all omegas – most come into heat every two/three months, some are around five/six, others, admittedly rare, only once a year. Other factors can help delay or forgo a heat altogether, such as lack of sleep or poor diet. Stress can also affect heats, although that can work either way. In the short term, it was feasible. I gave her the contacts for a couple of organisations that offer help and advice to omegas. I don’t know if she ever called them, but I can give them to you.”

He stood up and went towards the door, where a small table was covered with several pamphlets and picked two up. He handed them over.

“Thank you, doctor.” Sherlock pocketed them. “Did she ever confide in you about her husband?”

“No. She never showed signs of physical abuse – I would have recognised those – but she never looked happy either.”

Sherlock studied his expressive face, so easy to read. The doctor was clearly remembering the few times he had seen her, feeling he should have seen more, done more.

“There is nothing more you could have done, doctor. You gave her the means to seek help. It was up to her to take that chance.”

The man sighed, clearly unconvinced. Sherlock wrote down his phone number.

“If you remember anything else, do give me a ring.” He shook his hand and left the office.

 

*********************

 

Sherlock reviewed his encounter with the doctor. He had found himself intrigued. There was something about the man that was instinctively appealing. He analysed this finding. Yes, John was warm and open, easy to talk to, willing to help others, but there had been something else, something as yet indefinable that had made him appear more than the sum of his parts. His strong passionate feelings had only been partly held at bay during the meeting, but were startlingly evident in his flashing dark blue eyes, and there had been real anger in that fire that had sent a quite delicious shiver down his spine. Mr Ashworth could definitely count himself lucky not to ever meet John.

He had of course deduced the man’s military background and previous active service, although the fading tan lines showed he had been discharged months ago. There had been a slight limp when he had walked to the door, and a stiffness in his left shoulder that indicated injury, so possibly wounded in action. He realised he needed more data, and was already considering several ways of obtaining it, very few of them legal, when the truth of the situation struck him rather forcibly. Notwithstanding the general consensus, Sherlock was perfectly capable of feeling sexual attraction, but as this happened so very rarely it took him an embarrassingly long time to reach the inevitable conclusion. He was quick to take the realisation in his stride, however, and, well, there were no cases at present, and he had plenty of time to research his new interest. And Sherlock loved research.

 

*********************

 

Dr Watson left the surgery and made his way back to his small flat, stopping along the way at the local Tesco. He lived mostly out of ready meals or occasional take outs. He knew how to cook, could in fact rustle up quite a nice meal if he wanted to, but it was hard to be motivated when you were just cooking for one. He found himself thinking back to the DI’s visit, and fishing the man’s phone number out of his pocket. He thought it unlikely that he would remember any further details, but he stored the card safely away all the same, and made his way to the kitchen to seek the familiar comfort of tea.

 

*********************

 

Sherlock had been busy. He had checked out John’s flat (risibly easy to get into), investigated his friends, gained access to his official records, and, well, pretty much everything else about him. And the doctor had become more fascinating as he delved deeper. He had of course already glimpsed John’s underlying streak of steel, and his research had revealed the man’s love of danger which had driven him and was now sadly unfulfilled. Well, he could definitely do something about that. John’s need for excitement and danger had lured him to the service, his caring and loyalty perfectly suited to an army doctor. It was his attempt to save a comrade that had caused the injury that had almost killed him, and ultimately forced him to leave the service.

He was also warm and loving. A bit _too_ loving, if his list of conquests was anything to go by, though Sherlock noted that no resentment marred their memories of the amorous doctor. Indeed, there had definitely been some wistful sighing and far off looks of remembrance. A generous lover and quite skilled, then. Better and better. His bevy of friends were also unsurprisingly extremely fond of him, although Sherlock was careful to gain all this intelligence in surreptitious ways.

He found himself rather jealous of these warm friendships, these intimacies that seemed to mock him as the perpetual outsider, until a little known fact about the good doctor had come to light, which explained a few seemingly contradictory things. John had friends, of course, and he did meet with them regularly, but only as a group at social occasions at pubs or meals out. His sister was a recovering drunk and he was not close to her. All his romantic encounters had been enjoyable but of short duration. No best friend, no confidant, no long term relationships. For such a seemingly friendly open man, he kept parts of his life very private indeed. Sherlock’s access to John’s military records had revealed that John was an omega. It wasn’t unknown for omegas to enter the army, but it was reasonably rare. However they were not the only ones to be on some form of suppressants, so no one would have assumed John was an omega while he served. Whilst like everyone else his orientation would appear in official documents, these were not available for general perusal, and no one would know unless he told them. And his investigations had confirmed that John clearly hadn’t told anyone.

A little smug smile flickered on his features. Those friendships were not _quite_ so intimate after all, at least on the doctor’s side. The man had trust issues. Possibly a negative experience or innate caution. It did mean, however, that any thought he might have had for a more traditional approach was discarded after this discovery. But it did not matter in the long run. He could easily see how John was wasted in this dull little suburbia he seemed to have sunk into after his injury. He intended to offer John a much more exciting life, so much better suited to his temperament. He would love it, surely enough to forgive him.

 

For a few fleeting minutes he imagined an ideal world where he got to experience John’s warmth and care, that strength and loyalty focused on himself. He allowed his fancies to run wild just this once, snapshots flickering into existence to be instantly extinguished the next moment – John marvelling at one of his observations, laughing and brimming with adrenaline after a fast chase, loving and warm from lovemaking, looking fondly at him and.... He shook his head and smiled sourly at his own foolishness. No one could ever like him for who he was, he had enough experience to know that. He had no illusions about it, no matter what his traitorous heart might whisper in his moments of weakness. There was no purpose in false hope, and if he was to have the life he wanted he had to do what was necessary for success. He could allow no room for uncertainty.

 

Sherlock had found the pills in a drawer in the bedroom, not hidden, but unlabelled. The pills were not remarkable in their appearance and were in a generic bottle. They could be vitamin pills, for all anyone knew. Sherlock had taken two of them for testing, though he was certain of the result. Once his theory was confirmed, he set his plan in motion.

 

*********************

 

John looks a little frazzled when he answers the door on the second ring, but recognises the detective immediately.

“Oh, hello again, uhm, sorry I forgot your name..?”

“DI Lestrade.”

“Yes, yes, sorry.” He offers an apologetic smile. “I’m a little off my game today. Did you need to ask me any more questions?”

“Just a few, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not. Come in.” John leads Sherlock to the living room. He pretends to look around as if it’s his first time inside, taking in the sparse and slightly scuffed furniture and the frankly appalling shade of cream of the walls, which makes the place look even more dingy and poky.

“Would you like some tea?”

“Love some, thanks.”

Sherlock sits on the sofa while John goes pottering off into the kitchen. Two mugs of tea materialise on the coffee table a few minutes later, but just as he is about to sit down the detective apologetically asks for sugar. John goes back to the kitchen, and Sherlock slips the drug into his tea.

The doctor sinks into his favourite chair with a sigh and takes a tentative swig from his steaming mug.

“So, what did you want to ask me?”

Sherlock proceeds to give John a long appraising look. John is not sure what to make of it, or the slight flush he can feel rising to his cheeks.

“I could use someone with your expertise in my work. Would you be interested in assisting me on cases?”

“Uhm, I’m not sure I follow you. I’m not a pathologist, and I doubt you would often need a doctor’s input...”

“You were in the military, you’ve seen a lot of violent deaths.”

“How...?”

“I am a detective, Dr Watson, and I did do some background checks on you.”

“Oh, right. I suppose you needed to do that for the case.”

Sherlock smiles in assent. A flicker of uncertainty had momentarily crossed John’s open expression, but the tension had quickly dissipated once his mind had supplied an explanation.

Sherlock quickly clarifies how John’s experience and skills might be useful at a crime scene. John listens carefully, then takes a large mouthful of tea. He is seriously considering it.

“Well, it does sound interesting, and as long as it didn’t interfere with my work commitments there shouldn’t be a problem.” Then smiles a little sheepishly. “But I hope you don’t need my expertise tonight. I really am feeling rather off.”

“That’s quite alright, Doctor. I can see you need to rest. If you have any questions, you can call me.”

John shows Sherlock to the door, and almost immediately goes to bed. A good night’s sleep might sort him out, and he really is very tired now.

 

*********************

 

John is having a rather delicious dream concerning the DI, the feel of long dextrous fingers stroking him and plush lips exploring his skin. He reaches out to embrace that warm sensuous beauty but something is stopping him. He shifts in bed, and finds himself unable to move his arms. He struggles to wake, and groggily opens his eyes. For a bewildered moment he fancies he is still dreaming, what with being completely naked and the DI in question standing in his bedroom in his birthday suit, and sporting a really quite impressive erection. Then he notices his wrists are tied to the headboard.

“What..?”

“Ah, John, you have questions.” The apparition states rather matter of factly, completely at odds with his appearance. John stares. His mind is still somewhat foggy, and wondering why he is undressed and tied up. He is aware of Sherlock’s scent and his own confusing arousal, which is setting further alarm bells in his mind. Then he remembers his sudden tiredness, how he had practically collapsed in bed, and is instantly awake.

“You..! You drugged the tea.” John looks horrified. He wonders what kind of psycho he’s facing. He hasn’t long to wait for an answer.

“Yes, John, I was aware that you were close to your heat and wanted to make sure I would be the one spending it with you.”

John stares incredulously. He has always hidden his status very well, and some small still dazed part of him is wondering how the detective has found out. But whatever the case, John now finds himself getting angrier the more his mind is clearing.

“And it didn’t occur to you to, oh, I don’t know, ASK ME FIRST?”

Sherlock just smiles knowingly.

“Come now, John, you hide the fact that you are an omega, you’ve been on suppressants for years, and you are still taking them.”

John groans inwardly – how much does this guy know about him? And then he starts to think of the implications. Such knowledge in the hands of such a man does not bode well for him.

“....Therefore you had no intention of being in heat, and no intention of coupling. So asking would have been pointless, and would merely have alerted you to the danger of the situation, of which you were quite oblivious, and to my interest.”

Sherlock settles down on the bed near John’s hip and almost absent-mindedly draws little circles with one finger on the top of his thigh. John’s breath hitches and Sherlock is drinking in all his responses. He begins to blush as his body reacts to the touch and scent of the alpha. Suddenly something Sherlock has said triggers a train of thought. John’s suppressants have never failed before, and he knows he did not forget any dosage. A horrible suspicion surfaces in his mind, and his face must show exactly what he is feeling, for Sherlock chooses that moment to confirm his fears.

“Yes, John, I replaced your suppressants with placebos ten weeks ago. I have kept very close tabs on you since to make sure I would be the one to reap the benefits.”

John is bewildered.

“Why? Why would you do that? You can find omegas willing to share their heats. Or do you get off on raping them?”

“Of course not, John. I have never had any desire to have sex with an omega. None of the omegas I ever met were remotely interesting. But you...” – he leans towards him with an eager rapacious expression – “you are fascinating. You were an army doctor – you know how rare it is for an omega to be either of those things. You are strong, determined, resourceful, intelligent. Perfect, in fact.”

John is gritting his teeth mostly against the distracting sensations of Sherlock’s finger on his oversensitive skin.

“So glad to live up to your high standards. And as soon as I can get free, I’ll show you my appreciation.”

Sherlock smiles like it’s Christmas, and there is a John shaped stocking at the end of his bed.

“Oh, John, I can see I’ll never be bored with you. You are my perfect bond mate.”

If John thought he felt fear before, it is nothing compared to the dread that is now seeping through his system.

“What? Wait... bond mate? No, no bonding... No! You can’t...”

Sherlock looks at him as if he is a little disappointed that he hadn’t cottoned on to this obvious fact, and replies in the tone of voice that implies that John is being rather thick about this.

“Of course I want to bond with you. Do you really think I would go to all this bother for a one time heat experience? Really, John, don’t look so downcast. I intend for you to help me in my work – and having a doctor with military experience will be incredibly useful. You’ll love it. You’ll move in with me, obviously, but you can still work at the surgery or get another job nearer Baker Street, whatever suits you best.”

John is unable to process the rest of this information, stuck as he is trying not to panic at the mention of bonding.

“Wait! Ok, look, I really don’t want to bond. And trust me, you don’t either, if you really think about it carefully. There are strong emotional connections involved in bonding, it’s a lifetime commitment, and you don’t strike me as... stable. I mean, I don’t think you would be ... suitable, emotionally... for such a step. Come on! Surely you’ve looked into this, done some research...” – he finishes desperately.

“Yes, of course I have. However,” – he adds with a smug smile – “I am a high functioning sociopath, and I very much doubt that this aspect of bonding will have much of an effect on me. However I am very much counting it will on you. Your emotional responses are, for want of a better word, normal” – he utters the word like it’s the epitome of dullness – “and that means that _you_ , my dear John, will feel a strong tie to _me_.”

John knows it’s useless, but can’t help trying.

“Please, I.. I’ll make a deal with you. I will stay with you, willingly, but... no bonding. I can’t... _please_...”

Sherlock stares deep into John’s eyes, looking almost sad that he has to disappoint him, his voice a soft low whisper.

“No, John, I can’t take that risk.”

He leans forward to stroke John’s cheek. He has a pill in his hand which he shows him. “You know what this is.” John recognises the contraceptive pill, and he knows that at least he’s not going to be a broodmare for this crazy fuck. He takes it eagerly and swallows it.

“And now we wait. I estimate one more hour...” He runs his finger from John’s cheek down his chest then further to his navel, and lingers just an inch or so from his reluctant arousal.

“And in case you were wondering, no one from your work place will be disturbing us. I texted them from your phone when you were unconscious, and let them know that you were unwell and would be unable to cover your shifts for the next few days.”

John’s frustration makes him struggle again in his bonds, though his rational side is aware there is no way he can get out of them. Sherlock stills his movements by pinning his wrists down.

“Stop it, John. You are just hurting yourself.”

The sudden proximity sends a delicious warm thrill through John’s body, and he struggles to think coherently for a few seconds.

“It’s still rape. Even if I can’t prove it, and it’s my word against yours, do you really want to jeopardise your career over this? It’s not worth it.”

“Ah, well, I may have misled you there, John. I’m not in fact a DI at the Yard, and my name is not Lestrade.” John has given up feeling astonished and is settling for resigned stupor.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes and I’m a consulting detective. I’m often called in by the police when they can’t cope, which is to say rather often. As you know it is very difficult to prove coercion when in heat, and as you say it would be your word against mine.”

His smile is confident and after telling John he is a consultant with the police, he has no doubt that John is weighing the chances of having his story believed against Sherlock’s version of events. Of course John has no way of knowing that if it came to his word against Sherlock’s the likelihood is that Sherlock would be the one in trouble. Although not for long. There are advantages in having a brother run the British Government after all. The whole thing would be smoothed over and disappear, and John would learn a valuable lesson. Still, no need to make him feel more cornered at present. And it is always good tactics to keep other options hidden, in case they should be needed later.

 

Sherlock subsides into silent contemplation of his prize. He can see how John is still trying to think a way out of this, though his physical reactions and his heavenly smell is indicative of a highly elevated state of arousal, and maybe Sherlock’s initial estimate of one hour should be reviewed. Like the good doctor said, other factors can affect the onset of heat.

John’s cocktail of hormones is starting to affect Sherlock’s mental processes. His brain is boycotting higher cognitive functions and shifting down to a much lower gear. The messages now fizzing through his addled mind are primarily sensory: John’s smell, the feel of his skin, the sight of him naked and hard. And overlaying them all, the need to possess and mark him. He nuzzles into his armpit to take his fill of the heady scent that nestles there, making John gasp with the sudden contact, then swipes his tongue to taste him. John’s whimper burrows into the primitive part of his brain, and Sherlock is alternatively moaning and growling, licking John anywhere he can access easily, but concentrating on the areas where his smell is most delicious.

There is nothing in his world but the overpowering biological call of his body, the need to taste and smell, to touch, to have his fill of his omega. And John’s attempts to fight him are finally giving way to the onslaught of physical desire. Their bodies are more in synch now, the scent of fear dissipating and overlaid with arousal. His hand slides to John’s entrance without conscious thought, and comes away wet. He stares at his glistening digits as if in a trance, and licks them. The delicious spike of pleasure this elicits makes him throw his head back with a deep moan. He is trembling as he pulls John’s legs around his waist, takes his cock in hand and pushes into him.

 

Everything else falls away. Only this, _this_ , the world narrowed to this point of contact, waves of pleasure drowning him as he watches himself plunging into his mate, the frantic pace he is setting in this first coupling dictated by the primitive need to stake his claim, to keep other alphas away. He watches transfixed as John comes screaming, arching his back. He licks John’s chest clean, savouring the taste, relishing the whimpering sighs from the man underneath him. He nuzzles into John’s neck, feeling a sudden tension from the other man, and unerringly finds the bonding gland and begins to suck on it. John struggles underneath him, but his movements do nothing but excite Sherlock further. He feels the knot building in his cock and penetrates John as deeply as he can, both groaning with the almost painful sensations. Soon he is lost to the intensity of his orgasm as he sinks his teeth in John’s neck. He recalls nothing clearly after that.

 

*********************

 

There had been food. And drink. He remembers he made sure of that. Brought supplies back to John’s flat after he had drugged him. Just as well, as John seemed to be living on ready made meals. No decent food for a heat. He is unsure of the date – he thinks that was four days ago, but annoyingly his mind is still feeling a bit fuzzy. He is aware that his memory recall is somewhat lacking, and he had expected it to be so, according to his research. But theoretical knowledge is one thing. The actual experience is quite disconcerting. John seems to be still asleep. At some stage (though he has no memory of the fact) he had untied him, and he now lay on his side facing away from Sherlock.

He would have a shower first, then while John was having his he would make breakfast. They might need a day to recover. He doesn’t want to delay John’s removal to Baker Street, but he has to admit that both of them need rest.

The hot water is heaven. He luxuriates in the warmth that eases all the aches in his body, though strangely revelling in the several bruises he finds. He never thought seeing such marks would give him this arousing thrill. He puts it down to lingering hormones.

As he comes out of the shower he spots John standing distractedly in the kitchen, looking somewhat lost. He goes to meet him, tying the towel around his waist.

“What would you like for breakfast?”

John turns slowly to look at him. He looks ... glorious. Like himself, he has bruises, and like his own, seeing them sends a possessive pulse through his body, but what really sets his pulse quickening is John’s expression. Such beautiful fearsome anger, all directed at him. Sherlock is still contemplating this new aspect of John when the punch hits him squarely in the gut, and as he doubles up in pain the next one takes him on the side of the head and he topples sideways to the floor. He is stunned, and delighted. John is truly magnificent.

“You...! What the _hell_ are you smiling about, you nutter?”

“You are beautiful, John. I could not have chosen better!”

John stares at him hard, frustration, anger and unwilling curiosity warring for attention.

“You enjoy my punching you, do you? Good, I’ll be happy to oblige you at any and every opportunity.” The nutter is smiling even more broadly now.

“Oh, John, you are everything I wanted, and more. I swear to you, you won’t regret this.”

“You speak of it as if I had a choice.”

“Yes, well,” – Sherlock picks himself up – “I know what I want, and I take it.”

John looks set to hit him again, but seems put off by the frankly delighted look he’s getting from Sherlock. He runs a hand through his hair in an attempt to keep it busy with something other than punching this madman.

“Have a shower, John. I’ll make you breakfast.”

He feels dirty and he’s hungry, so he doesn’t argue, but shoots a murderous look at his bond mate (oh, god, he’s bonded, fuck!) so that he realises that this is by no means over.

He comes back to the kitchen once he has showered and dressed. He is relieved to see that Sherlock is also fully clothed. Hate him or not, the sight of him semi naked is very distracting. He sits down to a full English breakfast, and grudgingly admits to himself it’s exactly what he needed. He is quite aware that Sherlock keeps sneaking looks at him, but he has the sense to keep quiet, and wait for John to initiate conversation.

“I’m not moving in with you, and you can’t make me.”

“John, it would be a lot easier for you if you were to accept that I have planned for all sorts of contingencies before making my move, and I assure you that ensuring your cooperation in my plans was very high up on that list.”

A now familiar dread curls in his guts, and he knows this man enough to realise he has methodically planned everything, but there is something about the nonchalant manner of Sherlock’s delivery that stokes his anger even further. Just because he knows he’s fucked doesn’t mean he should just roll over without a fight.

He sneers. “Cooperation? You mean my coercion?”

John expects the alpha to show some frustration at his continued stubbornness, but instead Sherlock smiles at him, obviously pleased. His voice is pitched low as he addresses him in a decidedly flirtatious tone.

“You can call it what you like, John. But rest assured that I will get what I want.”

This earns him a furious frustrated look, which he carefully stores away in his mind palace under ‘delicious expressions of John’.

“Are you going to keep me prisoner? Tied to your bed, even? That will become somewhat tedious after a while, won’t it? And I suspect you hate being bored.”

Sherlock beams at him. “Quite right, John. Nothing like that, though I won’t deny that the vision of you tied to my bed is incredibly arousing.”

He shoots John a predatory look that sends a shot of adrenaline through him. The stirrings of arousal are decidedly mortifying. Clearly a reaction to the left over hormones from the heat, as his body vies between the fight or fuck response. God, he hates his body right now, the traitor.

“I’m not living with you, period.”

Sherlock sighs. “There is no law that says you must, of course. However, I understand that separation from your bonded, particularly in the early stages, can lead to considerable physical and mental stress. So, do you wish to put this to the test, or shall we just skip to the bit where we plan our lives together?”

John is suddenly deflated. As a doctor he is well aware of the insidious power of a bond. He has also had first-hand experience of Sherlock’s determination, and there is clearly not much he is unwilling to do to ensure John moves in with him.

He sighs. “Why pretend you need my input?”

“John, you misunderstand me. I have used every trick I needed in order to get you, because I knew you would be perfect for me, for the kind of man I am and the life I lead. I have now obtained my objective. I have no desire to subdue you. That would completely defeat the point. You are strong enough to put up with me without subjugating yourself to me or my needs, and that is what I want. As I said, you will also be valuable to my work, but you can still work at your clinic.”

“You...you’ll let me continue working?”

“Of course. There will be times that I will need you on a case and you will have to rearrange your schedule, but you’ll doubtless argue about that with me when it happens.”

Sherlock now looks as if he has ticked that particular box on his to do list, and is happy to move on. John eyes him resentfully.

“As you say you were planning to fuck up my life for some time, so forgive me if it takes me a little longer to deal with the situation.”

“Take all the time you need, John.”

God, he wants to punch him again, and probably will, and very soon. But he tries to keep himself in check. The damage is done. He is bonded. Sherlock is right – he knows that attempts to keep away from him would only result in pain for himself. He can already feel the undeniable tug of the bond towards this deranged bastard. His innate pragmatic character is trying to deal with the situation one step at a time.

“John, would you like to see the flat? We could take it in on our way to dinner. There’s a very nice Italian around the corner from there. I know you like Italian.”

“Yeah, of course you do.”

 

*********************

 

There is a surreal quality to the next few days, as John finds himself watching the flurry of activity around him. His scant possessions are quickly and efficiently moved to his alpha’s flat (their flat, he has to keep reminding himself). Some legal documents need his perusal and signature, but apart from that very little action is actually required of him throughout this momentous change in his life, which somehow makes the smoothness of the transition both irritating and anti-climatic. He is still struggling with an impulsive desire to punch and scream at the injustice of it all, and as the focus of that anger is currently sharing the flat with him, he attempts to avoid him as much as possible.

Sherlock is surprisingly diplomatic when John snaps at him several times during the first few days. He even makes him a cup of tea the first time this happens, although after John suspiciously peers at it and pointedly asks if it’s drugged the offer is not repeated. He pretty much gives him space after that, and John is both disgruntled and grateful about it.

However this exchange gives John the perfect excuse to do all the cooking and indeed tea making. This has in fact very little to do with trusting Sherlock not to drug him, and everything to do with seeing the state of the kitchen and especially the fridge. He also feels he needs to do something, anything to stop himself from thinking too much about his life. Keeping busy is one way for him to cope.

 

*********************

 

At one point he thinks about calling the omega support agencies, but there are too many factors holding him back. One of them is pride. He doesn’t want to be thought of as a victim, doesn’t want to go through a process that would inevitably label him as such. He is feeling pissed off enough as it is, thanks very much. He knows it’s not a sensible attitude, and goes against the advice he would himself give another omega in the same situation. But then again, it’s always easier to give such advice to others. It would still be his word against Sherlock’s, and anyway, who would believe him? If he heard the story himself he would seriously doubt it. ‘Yes, he pretended to be a DI with the met, then he stalked me for weeks, broke into my flat and replaced all my suppressants with placebos, then drugged me when we were having tea, and force bonded me. But since then he gives me pretty much all the freedom I want, doesn’t demand sex or children, and I even punched him once with no retaliation.’

He sighs. With all the terrible stories these agencies deal with on a daily basis, he would feel like a fraud. There were certainly alphas out there who would force a bond, but they typically exhibited the other traits that went with that kind of behaviour. Extreme possessiveness, jealousy, aggressive territorial displays, abuse of their omegas both physical and mental. Sherlock displays none of these.

In fact John has been allowed enviable liberties and independence, and his bond mate is not even angling for a child. In many ways Sherlock is remarkably un-alpha in his behaviour towards John. He is not even fazed when a certain amount of undue interest is shown towards him once his status as Sherlock’s omega becomes known. John does not want to be mollycoddled or worse, pitied, and he makes his feelings crystal clear. A concerned and annoyingly persistent alpha gets a mouthful from Captain Watson, and blanches. John sees Sherlock’s amused and proud smirk at the exchange.

John had known from an early age that he never wanted to bond because most alphas would never offer an equal partnership in the relationship. Society still considered alphas to be the dominant partner, and that there was nothing shameful in taking a more submissive role once bonded. It’s somewhat disconcerting to think that if it wasn’t for the forced bond he would have considered his present set up with Sherlock the ideal partnership. He mulls that over for a bit, then goes out before he punches him again.

 

*********************

 

It’s with a sigh of relief that John gets involved in Sherlock’s case a week after he has moved in. The strained tension they both have been living under is blessedly interrupted when Lestrade contacts Sherlock about a murder.

In the next two days he experiences the whirlwind that is Sherlock at his work, and he rapidly shifts between enthralled and captivated by his exuberant energy and brilliant deductions, and angry and frustrated at his treatment of everyone around him. Those others are particularly interested in him once they realise his connection with the detective, which he would happily have hidden if their telltale bonded scent was not an instant giveaway. No way of hiding that. Not that Sherlock would have wanted to, judging by the pleased smug cat-who-got-the-cream expression he sports at their horrified stares. Their reactions are quite an eye-opener for John. Mind you, knowing Sherlock even as little as he does, it’s no surprise to see that look, mixed with shock and worry. Still, having proved himself such a good actor in order to trap him, John had assumed that he would be putting on an act in his dealings with everyone else, but now he sees that Sherlock has no facade in everyday life. He does not seem to care about how obnoxious he is, or what people think of him, and indeed any effort to be more amenable is only directed towards John. For a second he feels a strange little smug feeling about that, and then stomps on it ruthlessly.

A couple of hours in the company of Donovan and Anderson are enough for him to reluctantly admit that Sherlock’s opinion of _them_ is certainly justified. There is a difference after all between being annoyed at Sherlock’s manners, but admitting that his presence yields results. This is certainly Lestrade’s stand, and John admires his professionalism and forbearance. But the others’ animosity has an unpleasant vicious quality to it, and John feels that much of that must be due to the pettiness of their characters fuelled by professional jealousy. How far in their careers would they rise if they had his powers of deduction?

He assimilates all this while trying to keep up with his partner’s demands on him. He is secretly pleased to see Sherlock listen to him and nod his approval. He feels his pleasure is justified in this instance, as it pertains to his professional knowledge, and does not berate himself for preening at it. Not that he has a lot of time for self scrutiny, what with trying to keep up with Sherlock’s runaway train of thought, and all the physical running around it involves.

 

Two days later Sherlock gets shot. John hears the familiar sound and sees the running figure ahead of him grunt, stumble and fall. He is there a second later, pulling clothing aside, smacking Sherlock’s hand away and ignoring his utterances of ‘It’s nothing’ and ‘he’s getting away’. The professional part of his mind is quickly cataloguing the injury – bullet graze just above the right hip bone (thank god the shooter was also running and not taking careful aim), possible patient shock (he mentally snorts – this is Sherlock), number of stitches required, amount of blood loss, how quickly he can get him to hospital (he’s already whipped his phone out and is thumbing the keys). The smaller hateful part of his mind is screaming ‘Ohgodohgodsomuchbloodhowcantherebesomuchblood’ and there are sharp talons gripping his heart. He makes the call. Once he has the bleeding under control he takes a few deep breaths and waits for the ambulance. He feels his mate’s eyes on him and steals a look. There’s no mistaking Sherlock’s frustrated anger.

“He got away. I told you I was fine.”

“Yeah, you’re welcome, you git.” Sherlock subsides into a sulky silence, and it feels like the longest ten minutes before help arrives.

 

*********************

 

Lestrade visits them the next day. Allegedly it’s to do with tying up the loose ends of the case, but John gets the feeling he is desperately curious to see the new domestic arrangements at 221b. Whatever he glimpses seems to set his mind at rest.

Perhaps it’s John’s no nonsense attitude to Sherlock ignoring his medicine.

“It’s the tablets or a jab in the arse. Your choice.”

And following this with a challenging look that clearly conveys that sticking needles in Sherlock’s butt while Lestrade is in the room is definitely on the cards. Sherlock subsides and huffily accepts his medicine, but there is a fleeting look in his eyes that speaks of amusement and pleasure at being fussed over. For an alpha he can be an odd little wanker.

Lestrade watches with a barely contained smile. Soon after he takes his leave, having invited John for a pint the following night. Sherlock grumbles in mock disapproval, stating loudly that he hopes John’s IQ is not going to suffer from the close proximity, but obviously pleased with the look of respect Lestrade had bestowed on his mate. They may think what they like of him, but they cannot fault his choice of partner.

Once more alone, John is uncomfortably aware of Sherlock’s stare boring into him.

He stares right back belligerently. “What?”

Sherlock recalls with perfect clarity the way John looked when he was shot. He had been professional and brisk but there was no hiding the fear he had obviously felt when he had first tackled Sherlock, before he ascertained the wound was not life threatening.

“It wouldn’t even occur to you, would it?”

John pinches the bridge of his nose, too tired to play guessing games.

“What are you on about now?”

“If the wound had been more serious, it would have been the perfect opportunity to finally rid yourself of your unwanted bond mate.”

The look of horror on John’s face is so painfully genuine Sherlock feels an unexpected unpleasant twist inside himself. He is not sure what that is. He is sure he doesn’t want to analyse it too carefully.

John just shakes his head. It’s not a denial. It’s the frustration of having this conversation at all. Surely even Sherlock would know he would never _not_ call for help.

“If the situation were reversed, if you had forcefully bonded me, I would let you die.”

John’s eyes snap to his. Sherlock holds his gaze with unwavering certainty.

“You are strong. If I died and the bond broke, you would recover. You must have thought about it happening. I lead a dangerous life, the chances of my dying at a ripe old age are laughable. You would be rid of me. Nothing so emotionally traumatic as actively murdering me. No, simple inaction would do it – failure to stem the blood, delay in calling for help. No one would suspect. And yet, you’d never do that, would you, John?”

It’s a rhetorical question and they both know it. They just look at each other for a long moment, then John mutters something about a bloody cup of tea and proceeds to the kitchen.

 

*********************

 

That night John dreams of Afghanistan. It is a familiar dream and even as he makes his way under fire to the fallen man he is aware of having done this before, many times. He knows as soon as he reaches him, just as he knew the first time, that he cannot save him. He is badly wounded and bleeding out. His face is a mixture of pain and confusion. He is saying something but John can’t make the words out. He kneels by the soldier, keeping low to make himself less of a target, and holds his hand. That’s all he can do. There is a sense of dread, as there always is at this point in the dream. He knows something else is going to happen, but he can’t remember what. He just knows it happens every time. The soldier has almost ceased his struggles and his eyes have acquired that unfocused look that tells John he is slipping away. As he watches, the features shift and reform and now the familiar sharp blue eyes are staring into his. “You are finally rid of me.” John is so shocked he pulls back onto his heels. The bullet goes right through him.

John wakes with a strangled shout. He sits bolt upright in bed, taking deep breaths and listening to the pounding of his heart. There is no going back to sleep, so he trudges to the kitchen to make tea. As he is waiting for the kettle Sherlock’s voice rises from the environs of the couch.

“Coffee for me.”

“You already don’t sleep enough. You are getting tea.”

Sherlock joins him in the kitchen. John is aware that he is being watched. He must look a sight, no doubt, and it wouldn’t take a genius to know what the problem is.

“Being in the same bed is supposed to improve the sleeping patterns of bonded couples.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“Didn’t think you did. But as you are constantly reminding me that it is not healthy to function on so little sleep, I thought we could try killing two birds with one stone.”

John’s not really in the right mood for this conversation, and tells Sherlock he’ll think about it. Sherlock nods, sits at the table and sips his tea. John pauses for a second, thinks about going back upstairs, then joins him and they finish their drinks in silence.

 

*********************

 

Five nights later, and he’s back in the desert.

He sees the fallen figure and runs towards him. An oddly rational part of his mind is telling him that this is not how things are in the dream, the man should be in uniform. This is all wrong. But he can’t make the connection until he reaches him. Then it slams into him and it’s like someone has reached inside his guts and pulled. Explosions and bullets are nothing but a muted backdrop to the panicked thrumming in his body. “Relax, John, it’s just a flesh wound”. But there is so much blood and it’s rushing over his hands where he’s trying to put pressure on the wound, pooling around John’s knees where he’s crouched over him, and God, he’s losing him, he’s losing him! John sits up and screams for help. The bullet goes right through him.

 

He makes tea for both of them, then he simply walks into Sherlock’s bedroom. The detective follows soon after.

 

*********************

 

They settle into a rhythm. It’s strange how even the most impossible situation can gradually transform into a version of normality. On caseless days, John will normally be up before Sherlock, who seems to be making up for all the sleep he’s ever missed, and makes breakfast. John’s unique brand of encouragement ensures that Sherlock’s eating patterns improve. Notwithstanding the detective’s constant griping about it, John knows full well that he is pleased by the attention bestowed on him, and John grudgingly admits to himself that he likes to see the little bugger eat.

John continues to work at the surgery. It means more travel time, but he needs something familiar, something pre-Sherlock that is still _his_ , and he’s damned if he’s going to put up with more change at this point.

On his first day back he has to endure congratulations for his bonding, though these are initially somewhat tentative as it becomes clear everyone assumes his alpha would want him to give up work. Once he assures them that he will remain, and that this decision is supported by his mate, the good wishes are unreserved. He is touched by the obvious sincerity of his co-workers, who go so far as to sneakily slip out for supplies and then have an impromptu party for him at the end of the day. For some reason he takes one of the balloons, the rather striking metallic purple one, back with him and hands it to a somewhat baffled Sherlock without any explanation.

 

*********************

 

There have also been a few shouting matches. Finally letting off steam has felt rather wonderful, though as soon as he gets the urge to physically strike out, he leaves the flat and walks off his aggression. He spots the all too familiar figure reflected in a shop window the first time he takes his ‘constitutional’ walk, and a couple of times after that. He doesn’t know if he does it every time. He thinks about eventually confronting him about it, right there in the street, but then realises he doesn’t really mind. It’s not as if Sherlock follows him because he’s being over protective or doesn’t trust his omega to be out on the street unchaperoned, or any of the other textbook impulses that beset alphas. Sherlock is not your typical alpha, and never acts in the expected manner. Still, the reason behind this behaviour is puzzling, and he is somewhat curious. He decides he will eventually quiz Sherlock at the appropriate and most embarrassing time.

When he comes back Sherlock is usually lounging on the couch with his ‘Genius at work thinking’ pose pretending he’s never left the flat. But then he knows all the shortcuts and can easily make it back home before John. No apologies are made by either party, but John goes to make tea for the both of them, and always finds his favourite biscuits on the kitchen table.

 

*********************

 

John has just returned from one of his ‘walks’ and is pottering in the kitchen making tea. Sherlock is trying to maintain a calm exterior that most certainly does not reflect his inner turmoil. It is all so ... frustrating and annoyingly unexpected. The fly in the ointment, the grit on the lens. He grimaces at the muddled thoughts his mind is currently experiencing. He had been so sure this would not happen to him, that he would just enjoy all the benefits of bonding without any of the downsides. He sighs. And it had all been so well planned. While he had stalked John, his mind had been focused on the man. But he had wanted, not needed. And now that clarity of thought has fled.

Once bonded, emotions had begun to cloud his judgement. He couldn’t read John as well as he thought he would. Surely bonding was meant to make this easier, not harder. But he hadn’t factored in how he himself would feel. And even more irritatingly, the bond was meant to instil some sense of security, some added surety that his partner would remain with him. So it was ironic that having gone to all this effort to ensure that at least one person in the world would stay with him, he now lived with the doubt that John would leave him.

 

Sherlock doesn’t mind the rows themselves. John seems to need the outlet for his anger, and it helps to diffuse the tension. What he minds is John’s subsequent absence. When John remains in the flat, even if avoiding him in his bedroom, or seething in his chair pretending to read, Sherlock feels secure. Just the man’s physical presence reassures him. When that is removed he flounders. It is when John storms out of the flat that Sherlock experiences that sense of unease deep inside himself. He knows what it is. That fear of impending abandonment. Intellectually he realises that John is unlikely to leave permanently, but ‘unlikely’ is not enough to still this dread. John is strong. Bond or not, maybe one day he would just not come back. Knowing this deep-rooted fear is heightened by the bond does not help to rationalise it. It merely points out his emotional inadequacy in coping with it. And the only way he can cope is to follow John. Just keeping him in his sight makes the knot of tension unravel.

 

He suspects John may have spotted him at least once, so he carries a dark red cashmere scarf when he follows him. The days are getting cold, and if John confronts him he can offer the object as an excuse for running after him. In that scenario the action might defuse any anger and maybe John would see it as a peace offering and agree to wear it. Sherlock chose it particularly as John looks good in red, but somehow has not found the right opportunity to hand it over. Perhaps he should just leave it on the table wrapped around the jammy dodgers. Then he could get those gloves he thought would look good on him and carry those around instead.

 

*********************

 

Sherlock had handed John his suppressants as soon as he had moved in. He proceeded to tell John he was aware that the bond needed reinforcing from time to time, and sex was necessary for this purpose, but it need not be during a heat, and therefore it was completely up to John whether to go back on suppressants or not. He finished by clinically stating that he would be amenable for copulation sometime that week, as there were no cases on at present. He stood waiting, clearly expecting an answer. John glowered and his grip on the bottle was almost painful. After one last look at John’s face Sherlock quietly yet swiftly moved away.

 

John has now been back on the pills for a month. He isn’t punishing Sherlock by not having sex with him. It just seems the man can function very well without that. Typical. No, as usual it’s John who is drawing the short end of the biological straw. Sherlock had not been wrong. There was an unfulfilled need there, a desire for physical intimacy with his mate that no amount of wanking was helping. If anything it left him sad and frustrated. The thought of having to be the one to initiate sex with Sherlock is humiliating and mortifying in equal degrees.

 

He is spared that when he returns from work one day to find a meal laid out on a candle lit table. He is so thrown he stands unmoving and staring for long moments, until he feels the familiar presence next to him.

“I understand a romantic meal should precede a request for sex.”

“Ah...”

“We don’t have to, of course. It’s just... I would very much like to, and maybe you might need it too.”

There is definitely an uncertain tone there that is so unlike the man that John turns to stare at him. Sherlock seems composed but there is an indefinable tension in his posture that sends a spike of lust through John. He curses his biology immediately after, and yet it is a relief not to be alone in this desire, to know that at least in the physical aspect of the bond they are equally suffering. Had Sherlock waited so long because he was unwilling to put pressure on him after his first clumsy attempt? Or perhaps the bond’s demands had surprised even the great detective. He still hasn’t answered him, and Sherlock is now getting decidedly twitchy.

“Yeah, alright. Let’s do it.”

Sherlock visibly relaxes, then immediately begins to move towards the bedroom.

“What? No dinner?”

John watches as Sherlock practically jerks to a standstill, his slightly pained look quickly giving way to a somewhat strained smile.

“Of course” – he manages as he moves back towards the table.

“Just kidding. Dinner can bloody wait.”

And he precedes Sherlock to the bedroom beginning to undress along the way.

 

*********************

 

The sex was good. God, it was _really good_. Hell, he isn’t going to feel bad about that. He might as well get something out of this skewed relationship. And watching Sherlock shagged out and sleeping next to him – well, actually, he’s not sure he likes the feelings arising out of that. He turns onto his back and stares at the ceiling. His mind returns to familiar territory.

Not for the first time he wonders how things could have worked out if he had met the detective under different circumstances. He had been attracted to him when they first met, of course he had. He has eyes and a pulse, and the man is oddly beautiful. And frankly, as annoying as he could be to live with, John is fascinated by his mind and methods, his lifestyle and the danger. He knows that’s not the bond talking. After all he has freely hated his guts for a while. Though he’s not sure what he feels now. It’s not hate, no. He still resents him, of course. But the memory of that night is more like a dull ache now than an open wound. Other memories are overlaying it. Perhaps it is the bond after all, this bloody biology fucking with his mind. Or maybe it’s seeing how Sherlock is trying to make this work. He has his own reasons, no doubt, and yet, behind the assured facade, there is insecurity, a flicker of uncertainty in his dealings with John. Perhaps the bond really is affecting the detective more than he knows.

He turns to look at him again and sighs. Sherlock is lying on his side facing John, one arm awkwardly trapped under his body. How can the little shit look so endearingly innocent? He can’t help but close the distance and manoeuvre him so he is comfortably leaning on his shoulder, arm wrapped around his waist. Sherlock sighs and stirs in his sleep, snuffling into John’s neck. John is vaguely aware that he should not be liking this so much before he succumbs to restful sleep.

 

Sherlock wakes up tangled in John, feeling sated and calm in a way he had never felt before, even after the bonding. The previous night had been a gamble, and he truly had no idea how John would react. He is getting used to living with the strange uncertainty that is his bond mate, the fact that the man is so often surprising him. And sometimes, more disturbingly, he finds himself surprised at his own responses to him.

Sex with John had been completely unlike the heat, but in many ways more satisfying. John was quite ... pro-active in bed, and was certainly happy to take the lead. An unexpected spike of arousal hits him at the memory.

He resigns himself to the obvious conclusion that even sociopaths might not be immune to biology. Or perhaps no one could be completely immune to John. Whether this is purely another unexpected consequence of the bond, or simply one of living with him, well, frankly he has ceased to care. He cannot be an impartial observer in this, and attempts to analyse his reactions would be pointless. He’d much rather occupy his time with revisiting the memory of John’s scent during sex, the taste of his skin, the way John had pinned him down and ridden him... He becomes aware of John’s sideways glance pointedly travelling from his face to his already half hard cock and back up again with a raised eyebrow. Inexplicably he finds himself blushing and this somehow brings the first genuine warm smile on John’s lips.

John goes off to make breakfast a few minutes later, leaving Sherlock fairly hopeful that he will not have to wait another month for a repeat performance.

 

In fact they end up having sex every day after that for the first two weeks. Initially the requests are a little tentative and awkward, but as no rejections are forthcoming from either of them, and as the sex continues to be enjoyed by both, they become more confident. Afterwards, there is the intimacy of languid touching, the skin to skin contact, the sharing of warmth with another body. The beginnings of belonging.

 

*********************

 

It has now been four months since _that_ day. Not an anniversary he feels particularly inclined to mention, or even remember, and he has no doubt Sherlock feels the same. But nonetheless he cannot help being aware of it, and there are things that need to be said, no matter how painful. God knows, John does not want to talk about it, but someone has to bite that bullet, and it’s clearly never going to be Sherlock, who seems to have a sixth sense when it comes to this particular awkward conversation, and reveals a knack for pre-emptive escapes. Every time John steels himself to begin, his line of thought is derailed by Sherlock being annoying or petulant or downright impossible in all his Sherlockian ways. This time he is determined to break the pattern. He is seated in his chair and Sherlock is lounging on the couch, and if need be John will physically sit on the bugger to get him to listen.

“I have wondered why you chose me.”

“If you have, then clearly my regard for your above average intelligence was misplaced.”

John chooses to believe there is a compliment somewhere in that sentence, as it’s hard enough having this conversation without getting angry as well.

“I mean, why you wanted to bond. I think you were lonely.”

This elicits an annoyed huff. “Do by all means justify my actions in any way that will make them more palatable to you, John, but be aware that you are merely projecting.”

“Projecting..?”

Sherlock keeps talking with that confidence he normally reserves for crime scenes, but John notices that he does not look directly at him. “ _You_ were lonely. I saw that as soon as I met you. It was written on your body, your lifestyle, your history. _You_ needed companionship.”

John lets out a frustrated sigh. He’s quite aware he has hit a raw nerve there, judging by Sherlock’s defensive words and physical posture. The alpha is trying to derail this conversation that he clearly does not want to have. Tough.

“I hate what you did. I hate that you took my choice away.”

“Really, John? Because you clearly would have _chosen_ to be with me.” Sherlock snaps back bitterly.

And now John’s temper is getting the better of him. “If you had bloody bothered to ask, maybe we wouldn’t be here, having this conversation.”

“You are right. We would not be having a conversation at all, since we would never have been together. Let’s face it, John, no one would _choose_ to be with me.”

“So your solution is rape, is it?”

They both recoil at the words. John feels awful as soon as they are out of his mouth. But he knows that some part of him is still angry, and wants to lash out and hurt Sherlock. And he does hurt. John can see that, and he feels ashamed. He leans forward in his chair, elbows on knees, eyeing his bonded with a mixture of apology and frustration.

“Look, I...”

Sherlock tenses immediately, and a scared yet painfully resigned look settles on him. For the first time he looks directly at John.

“If you are going to leave, just say so.”

That shocks John into temporary silence. He only truly realises at that moment that his alpha believes John is going to leave him, that maybe he has always thought this, always feared it. His tone is much softer when he adds –

“I’m still angry about it, ... sometimes. But I _want_ this to work, I want _us_ to work.”

Sherlock looks as if he can finally breathe again. He is a little shaky as he opens his mouth to say something, then shuts it. He’s still uncertain where this talk is going, and feels safer letting John take the lead. After all, he has no illusions that he’s going to agree to anything to have John stay.

“I like living with you. Hell, I like _you_ , even though you can be a real twat sometimes. The bond doesn’t make me blind, you know. But you are so ... alive. Like no one I’ve ever met. And my life was empty and ... you make me feel alive.”

“John...”

Sherlock is off the couch and crouching in front of him. John looks at him, a small smile on his lips, and strokes his hair.

“It’s just ... it’s going to take a little time, yeah?”

“But you will stay?” And he is trying for calm but is not even aware how tightly his hands are gripping John’s thighs.

John’s smile broadens.

“Idiot. Like I could stay away.”


End file.
